If you've squeezed my thigh muscles lately, you'll know SF is all about the hills. At times, it's flabbergasting. Last night, a taxi dropped me a block from my destination and I realised I'd need crampons, a rope and Kendall Mint Cake to complete the journey.
Getting into work every day is traumatic. My office building is on a 45 degree hill, so getting through the door unscathed requires ski-lift dexterity and excellent timing. I've been there 15 days and fallen over three times on 're-entry' after lunch.
It's 'us and them' when it comes to living on the ups and downs: 'nonchalant locals' v 'hapless immigrants'.
The locals GLIDE down the hills. It's all very controlled, like a human slinky spring. I, however, slink for five steps...and then start slapping down my leading foot....before falling into a helicopter whirl of arms and legs. Readers, I come down Chestnut Street like a Special School Triple Jump Champion.
I plan to illustrate this blog with video footage.
It's incredible the way that you stop noticing after a while though. When I first moved to SF it was a major slog to get anywhere - but now, after 5 years it's only the really insane hills that still knock my socks off. Divisadero might be the most frightening street ever constructed. I vowed never to buy a car with an automatic gearbox when I moved to the States...that was until I'd ground the clutch to dust in a manual.
Posted by: John | Saturday, October 29, 2005 at 11:20 AM